


We Will Always End Up Here

by Zayrastriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, Future Dean Winchester, Lucifer as Sam | Sam as Lucifer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer never wanted Dean dead. <br/>Dean knows it, even if he never dared admit it to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Will Always End Up Here

**Author's Note:**

> open requests blah-blah. Requests are fun to write. Also I totally ship this.

Dean wakes up just in time to see other-Dean vanish (past!Dean, with warmer, younger eyes and expressions that are real, not an imperfect mask of what he thinks the past might have been like.)

He’s surprised that Lucifer didn’t just kill that Dean, save himself the trouble.

He’s even more surprised that he’s actually woken up (but not really, not since the seventh time Lucifer left him alive when yet another of Dean/Cas/Bobby’s seemingly plans went haywire, when he’s had to watch everyone who’s trusted him die, one by one). 

Dean’s not surprised.  And fucking cowardly-pathetic though it is, there’s something thrilling about being surprisingly alive. In pain, agonising pain to his head - there’s blood dripping down his forehead, slowly and sluggishly, and he can feel concussion like a really annoying long-term, on-off girlfriend. 

But still alive.

“Well, now that he’s gone,” drawls a horribly familiar, alien voice, and a shadow looms over him before shrinking as Lucifer kneels by his side.  

It’s useless, Dean knows; but he strikes out anyway, a blind, weak punch in the direction the voice is coming from.

 _Sammy’s voice_ , Dean thinks and then  _no, no, not Sammy anymore.  Not now._

There’s a slight laugh, smug amused fondness as the archangel grasps Dean’s flailing wrist, holding it still with just enough force that Dean stops, but not enough for it to really hurt.

“None of that now,” Lucifer chides with a remonstrating click of his ( _Sam’s_ ) tongue.

Dean replies with an incoherent grunt of frustration and an even weaker swing of his left fist. 

A stupid idea, he realises pretty much immediately, when a hand closes on his forearm; and this time, fingers dig into his skin, hard enough that Dean can’t help the involuntary cry of pain that escapes him.  

“Don’t you think it’s time to stop fighting?”  Though his tone is still soft and soothing, there’s a slight edge of irritation to it.

Irritation, and something else that leaves Dean’s voice weak and quiet when he tries to bite back with a defiant “Keep dreaming, you son of a bitch.”

The fingers tighten around his arm, and then  _pull_.  Still concussed stupid, Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening till he’s already sprawled on his brother’s ( _Lucifer’s, Lucifer’s Lucifer’s LUCIFER’S_ ) lap, blinking and disoriented.

Before he can react more, lips brush lightly over his forehead.  The pain sharpens - he can feel, for one brief, agonising moment, the knitting of flesh and skin - before dissolving as he slumps boneless into the warm, solid comfort of Sam’s body, a fuzzy lassitude sweeping through him.

Some time later, Dean stirs slightly at the feeling of fingers running through his hair.  Reminds him of that time back in Maine, 2006 (spirit of a jaded maths teacher, of all things) when he broke one wrist and sprained the other. Sammy had held out for all of about a week before breaking and agreeing to wash Dean’s hair for him.

Feels good, really good - Dean tries to mumble a  _thank you_ , but it comes out more as a sort of embarrassingly girlish moan.

He hears a chuckle from a little above him - no, beside him.  Sam’s got his mouth near Dean’s ear, bastard, he knows Dean’s ears are sensitive.  ”That’s right,” Sam whispers, cool breath (too cool, like a wisp of an Arctic winter) sending pleasant tingles down Dean’s spine.  ”I’m gonna take good care of you, Dean.  I promise.  And not just for poor little Sam, either.”

The words wash over him but he doesn’t absorb them, not really - just shivers, caught between the light tugging at his scalp and the air tickling at his skin.  ”You’ve never given up, have you?”  Sam continues, and there’s slight awe in his voice, like Dean’s something he’s never seen before.  ”Not ever, no matter how many deals I’ve offered you, no matter how many friends of yours I’ve killed.  I thought Sam was just being sentimental, but…you’re something, Dean.  Really.”

Something’s off.

Something’s…

“Shh,” Sammy whispers.  ”Just relax.  Don’t worry.”

The thought slips away from him, the worry, dissipating in an instant.

He’ll think about it later.


End file.
